The little things
by RemixedOrigins
Summary: Sometimes, you need to look away from the big pictures and focus on the little things.


_Oh, I'm such a sucker for my Ryan. I wuv him, yes I do. Short sort of drabble thing, trying to show the not-so-angsty times in the neverending torture session that is Chino. Sorry for cheesiness, typo's, spello's, and general stupidities. Heh. _

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**The little things**

Sometimes, you need to look away from the big picture. To focus on the little things. The details.

"Oh my God, honey," his mom shrieks, waving her cigarette in his face. "This is – this is amazing! You wrote this? Oh my God..." she trails off, inhaling deeply from the smoke, whilst glancing not-so-discreetly at the neat bundle of papers in her hand.

He nods, unsure of what to say. She wasn't supposed to read that essay. He can't believe he'd just left it there, on the counter, free for all to read. He's turning red, cheeks flushing with embarresment – and maybe, just maybe, abit of stubborn pride.

Laughing euforically, his mom bends down to his eye level and pulls him into a tight hug. He stiffens, but only for a slight moment. She smells like soap, his mom. Lavender soap. For a change, she isn't wearing any perfume, and not nearly as much makeup as usually. She smells... happy, if that's even a smell.

"You're so smart, kiddo!" she exclaims, ruffling his hair, even though she knows he hates it so when she does it. Only small children have their hair ruffled. He doesn't care, though. Maybe he's too surprised, or too happy, or just too plain desperate for fresh oxygon. He even feels a little stinge of disappoint when his mom all too soon breaks the hug and pulls away, still breathing a teeny bit too heavily for her own good. The selfrighteous male nurse with the mole once said something about fainting, he suddenly remembers. Hopefully, his mom isn't going to pass out in the middle of his room. That' be just too embarresing. Too difficult to explain away.

"It's, it's uh... not really a big deal," he says, his voice raspy and way-too-deep. He better not talk too much; his voice sounds suspiciously much like it's in the mood for unprovoked breaking. Sometimes he just hates those damn hormones of his. They give him an unstable voice, sure enough, but they can't deliver one lousy growth spurth. Must be the genes of his mom.

His mom winces and ashes on the floor. "Not really a big deal, huh?" she slowly repeats. "I'll tell ya this, Ry, this is _amazing_. It's an A, and it's damn well deserved! Must've gotten my brains after all, you smart sonofabitch – dude, dat's wha' a'm sayin', you know?" she finishes in a mock jock voice.

Against his own will, a small laugh escapes his lips. His mom looks amused. "Huh, no?" she teases, playfully hitting his shoulder. "What, ya don't think your momma's smart?"

"Smarter than my maths teacher," he says truthfully. The mere thought of that truly disgusting woman makes him giggle, mentally struggling to remove all mindnumbing images of the "chiiirfull" Mrs. Donovan, who may or may not be wearing an actual thong under her very white slacks. Compared to that, his mom's Santa Maria herself.

"You know, hon, you really do need a haircut," his mom suddenly comments, tugging lightly at her own curly bangs. "You're startin' to grow a friggin' mullet."

"I like my hair," he retorts, glancing slightly at his mom's face, to see if the joke was accepted or not. His mom arches one freshly drawn brow. "Oh yeah? Well, sorry to tell ya this, kiddo, but Mrs. Gunnarson from down the street? She called an' said her boy'd like his hair back by now."

"Oh, ew!"

He grimaces and pretends to frantically rip his own bakch air out. His mom laughs lightly, before taking a few quick drags off the almost finished cigarette.

"Kiddo," she says, carefully placing the essay on his bookshelf. "You don't mind bein' alone tonight, do ya? Johnny asked me out an a date – you like Johnny, right? Remember? He gave you ten bucks once. He's such a sweet guy."

Johnny. He's one of the better ones, admitted. Smokes like a chimney, swears like, well, like Trey, but he's okay. He doesn't mind his mom being with that guy, though he'd rather not have all those disgusting images creep into his mind whenever she mentions his name.

"Cool, mom."

"You sure you'll be okay?" She's just doing the mom thing now. She's already planning out the entire night; he knows that. He's okay with it. Maybe he can eat at Theresa's, though she's starting to make some confusing comments lately. He doesn't quite get the whole "aren't we, you know...?" deal, and somehow Theresa doesn't get that _he _doesn't get it.

"Nah, I'll be okay. Got some homework anyway. Have fun."

"Oh, you know I will, baby. I'm a sex bomb."

"Ew, _mom_!"

It's those things that make him happy. The little things. No matter how tough times get, how screwed up his life is, the little things are always in the back of his head, reminding him of why he's even trying. The little things.


End file.
